growing pains
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Miles loses a great many things at a very young age. Getting even some of them back is not an easy process. [Wrightworth; part of my Quartered series]
1. couch (99)

I was given a list of prompts with the challenge to write 100 drabbles, each no more than 600 words long. I chose to do things a little differently: instead of one pairing, I'm writing for four of my favorite ones, and attempting to make all the drabbles interconnected and chronological. I'm also picking them at random - shuffled up all the prompt words in a box to make sure. (This is why each chapter has a random number in parentheses as well.)

The summary/title may change as the fic evolves, depending on where the prompts guide me. I have a general idea but can't get too specific for obvious reasons. Also, updates will probably be slow, as I'm cycling my drabbles through each pairing as well as not doing this every day. I'm posting each as a separate story for ease of reading, but they're all in a series if you feel inclined to check the others.

* * *

Miles was only ever sent to the principal's office once – in third grade. All the way down the hallway to the office, his breath grew louder in his ears, the walls stretched further and further away. He felt infinitesimal, a puny bug about to be crushed, and he didn't even care if that was dramatic of him. Larry sauntered ahead, actually whistling – but Miles hadn't been through this countless times before, and despite all of the logical reasoning and even proof to the contrary, he simply couldn't stop thinking I'm gonna be expelled I'm never going to college everyone is going to think I'm a criminal forever I'll never be a lawyer nowon a sickening, ever-worsening loop –

"Hey." He half-turned to see Phoenix looking at him with obvious concern. His eyes widened at whatever he saw on his face. "Whoa, uh, are you okay?"

Miles bit his lip. If they kicked him out of school for being pulled into Larry's dumb prank Phoenix would probably stop being his friend and they'd never see each other ever again.

"No," he whispered.

"I-It's not gonna be that bad," Phoenix tried to reassure him. "Probably just detention. You've never done anything before, it's not like they're going to put this on your permanent record."

Miles nodded. Pictured a newspaper headline: Juvenile delinquent assaults math teacher; never recovers.

"…I'm not helping at all, am I?" Phoenix asked.

Miles shook his head.

"Sorry," his best friend said. "I'm not good at making people feel better. I don't – honestly, I'm a little scared too. Mom's gonna kill me."

Miles wanted to smile at that, or at least to tell Phoenix that he was good at making people feel better, he made Miles feel better every single day. It was just this one moment that he was panicking beyond all hope of assistance, and it wasn't Phoenix's fault at all –

But up ahead, Larry had reached the office door and yanked it open. He yelled for them to catch up, and both boys still in the hallway flinched. Phoenix grabbed Miles' wrist and pulled him into a jog, turning into the office just in time to hear the secretary sigh fondly.

"That makes three times this month, Mr. Butz."

"I missed you!" Larry grinned cheekily.

She laughed; jabbed her pen at the small couch by the door. "Sit down, you charmer."

Miles sank into the couch as if it were an electric chair. He'd seen people waiting on this couch before. It was The Couch, it made everything real, because if they were waiting here that meant Principal Sterne was inside her office calling their parents. He felt numb. Was he crying? He wanted to cry.

Phoenix sat down close to him, hips and shoulders touching. Staring into his lap, Miles saw it happen: a familiar hand, reaching over to cover where his own gripped his leg.

Phoenix's fingers squirmed beneath his, tugging on his right hand, pulling until it rested between them, on both their thighs, and suddenly Phoenix's hand was tightly holding his. When Miles jerked his head up, wide-eyed, Phoenix smiled.

He smiled, and squeezed Miles' hand.

It's okay, the gesture said, simply. We're in this together.

Stunned, awed somehow, face really warm somehow and heart a little mushy, eyes still kind of wet and heart still beating too fast and panic still jittering through his skin, but also something he couldn't verbalize at all, couldn't put words to past you're the best friend ever and those weren't even enough – Miles smiled shakily back.

They held hands all the way through the meeting.

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 **wordcount:** 600


	2. light (100)

When the first letter arrived, Miles clutched it in both hands, bit his lip _hard_ to try and stop the tears welling up, or at least have an excuse for them. Phoenix's handwriting was so familiar, and yet it felt like years since he'd seen it – long, dark, miserable and lonely years.

He snuck upstairs to read it in the privacy of his bedroom, locking the door behind him and wrapping himself up in the thick blankets on his large, luxurious bed. Already, just holding the letter was bringing him back; he could almost hear Larry's comments on how snazzy his new house was, the less-than-subtle questioning about his allowance and nearby arcades. He could picture Phoenix standing on the Persian rug in the middle of the room, looking around with wide eyes, before finally saying something like, "is this a house or a _museum?_ "

Miles missed them so much.

He tore the letter open carefully, and removed the paper inside with shaky fingers.

 _Miles,_ it read,

 _I finally found out where to write you! No one would tell me what was going on for ages, just that something happened and you had to go live somewhere else for a while. They still won't tell, but at least I can write to you now. I hope you and your dad are okay._

 _Everything is the same back here, except I'm already getting detention a lot more, thanks to not having you to say no to Larry. I finally finished that Terabithia book, but I have no idea why you wanted me to read it. It's so sad! Good, I guess, but I couldn't stop crying for hours. I'm going to find a movie that will make you cry and make you watch it with me next time I see you. Just wait._

 _I hope I see you soon. I'm sorry this is short, I promise I'll write more next time. But mostly I wanted to let you know I'm thinking about you. Larry's great, but you're my best friend and I really miss you (don't tell him I said that)._

 _Love, Phoenix._

Miles stared at the letter for a long time. He felt numb, some kind of dry-eyed shock overtaking his body. His eyes darted around, rereading different lines, trying to figure out how he felt.

He thought about Phoenix reading _Bridge to Terabithia_ and crying, and wished he'd been there. He stared at the lines calling him Phoenix's best friend, the _miss you_ , the _love_ , and his heart felt swollen in a painful sort of way: bruised, aching. He pictured his friends in detention, and remembered their trip to the principal's office only a few months ago, and he wanted more than anything to be back there again, when the scariest thing he could imagine was rendered bearable just by holding Phoenix's hand.

He looked back at the top of the letter and thought about writing back, how he would have to be the one to tell Phoenix his dad wasn't okay. His dad was dead, because Miles had killed him. Everything was the same back home – but he wasn't _home_ anymore, and he couldn't be ever again, and he didn't want to ever tell that to Phoenix, didn't want to put that on him. He didn't want Phoenix to know how messed up he really was. He didn't want Phoenix to stop loving him, to realize he wasn't worth it anymore.

Miles saved the letter in a locked box. Shutting the lid felt like dousing the sun.

He didn't read any of the ones that came after.

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 **wordcount:** 599


	3. time (18)

In the von Karma household, Miles learns patience.

He learns a lot of things there, many of which he'd rather not talk too much about. He learns that silence is cold, but approval can be even colder. He learns that love can be subtle, come creeping in under cover of angry words and whipcracks – and that it can hold hands with envy, maybe even hate. He learns to guard every part of himself from the outside in, starting with his smile and ending with his heart.

He learns that hope is worthless; it implies doubt. Only certainty will do.

(His nightmares place him in the worthless category. Luckily he's learned to smother any urge to admit so out loud.)

Most of all, Miles learns patience. He spends eleven years waiting – then waits two aborted trials more. The deaths aren't a promising beginning to his career, but he's learned not to let outside circumstances get in his way so he tries not to dwell. Even so, his patience is becoming stretched by the time he faces down Mia Fey, with her foolish insistence on the innocence of a criminal. She's wrong. She has to be, because the man is on trial and Miles has learned that nothing else matters.

It's his job to assume guilt.

It's his job to ensure guilt.

When he finally sees his third trial through to a proper conclusion in the form of a guilty verdict, some part of Miles expects his patience to be repaid, his waiting to end. He's spent so long working for this moment, has built his life and even himself around finally achieving it: surely, this will fill his hollow spaces.

Of course, sending one man to jail does nothing. In retrospect, that's no surprise – how could a single person ever match up to all those years? There are thousands more, always will be thousands more because people don't ever just stop being evil to one another. There's no way to get ahead or even catch up. All he can do is try to stem the tide… even if those empty spaces remain that way.

In the von Karma household (and his apartment in L.A. still is, for all he's alone and thousands of miles away), worth can be easily measured. It goes by the name perfection.

So long as he keeps winning trials, he will matter. So long as he sends them to prison, he makes a difference. So long as he is perfect, he will be okay, he will be able to get by on that knowledge, ignoring all else, remembering to hide love under whipcracks, remembering not to smile, remembering to hide all evidence of his worthless nature deep down, that gnawing gaping hole in the center of his heart.

It's an act of patience more than anything else, because Miles knows he is not capable of remaining perfect forever. He's just waiting to be revealed as a failure, putting away as many people as he can in the meantime.

When the moment finally comes, it does bring something new after all. Or perhaps not new: Phoenix Wright steps straight out of his memories into real life. Staring across the courtroom, Miles can almost smell the paper and ink, can feel that ache he boxed up sixteen years ago as fresh as ever. As his win crumbles away before him, he is left deeply shaken.

He thinks about all the lessons Phoenix has clearly learned, diametrically opposed to his own. He wastes time and brainpower and emotion worrying about which are right.

It's agonizing.

He wants the emptiness back.

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 **wordcount:** 600


	4. shadow (24)

If Phoenix Wright wasn't enough: Miles must prosecute the Steel Samurai.

Obviously, he is well aware of the divide between reality and fiction – but past and present seem nebulous these days, along with right and wrong. There are so few things Miles has held onto from his life before his father's death. Even coming back home had little impact on him. But as soon as Wright is back in his life again –

By the time Dee Vasquez takes the stand, Miles already suspects the truth. He can't – it's been proven, now, that he's not always right. That last trial came so close, so often, and a month later Miles is still thinking of how many other trials he's won, how flimsy some of the stories he spun to do so. He looks at Maya Fey across the courtroom, standing at his childhood best friend's side; pictures her in prison because of him, and it's so hard to remember the lessons he's spent sixteen years learning and putting into practice.

When Wright compares Miles to a lying child, it _stings_ , feels like a betrayal despite how far apart they've grown. Miles has _never_ – he wants to say he has never – he doesn't _know_ , he's never knowingly presented false evidence outright, but he's told witnesses what to say, interpreted their memories for them in whatever way suited his purpose best. Is that any different than outright lying on the stand?

He has a terrible sinking feeling.

In the end, he does what's right. He has to, at least as much for selfish reasons as any noble ideal: he has to _know_ , to be certain of every detail even if it means he loses again. He doesn't want even a shadow of doubt here, not when for the past month he's lived under a constant cloud of it, second-guessing his every move. Miles doesn't want this to be another trial keeping him up late at night, rereading the transcripts and _wondering_.

It's a mistake.

His doubts are confirmed, his unease only grows –

Phoenix smiles when he thanks Miles for the help. It's a soft expression, open and welcoming, and it causes a stab of real panic to run through him. Yesterday, this man indirectly accused him of lying in a court of law, but now he's smiling like nothing ever happened to tear them apart, like they've been friends all this time. Like if Miles just played along, everything would be forgotten, like it would really be as easy as smiling back and accepting the invitation join them.

The thought is horrible, attractive and repulsive in equal amounts. Miles doesn't understand what Wright _wants_ from him, and he decides in an instant that he doesn't care to find out. He can't imagine _hanging out_ , doesn't want to toast to his own defeat with the man who brought it about. He doesn't.

Wright was smart to compare him to Hackins: at heart, Miles is still a coward, unable to accept the ugly truth. He's never admitted what he remembers from that elevator, for the past month he's made no move to actually investigate his doubts, and now he holds true to form by telling Wright to stay away.

He tells himself that if he doesn't see Wright again, his doubts will fade. He will be able to feel certain in his purpose and actions once more, if he just has enough time without _that man_ in his life.

After all, light is necessary to cast a shadow. If Miles chooses to live in the dark…

He prefers invisible monsters to one in the mirror.

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 **wordcount:** 600


	5. progress (60)

Months pass. Wright makes no move to contact Miles again. He buries himself in work, investigating more thoroughly than ever, dismissing multiple cases before they ever come to a trial because of flaws he's found in the detective work, and poring late into the night over the ones he does pursue. Halloween passes, then Thanksgiving – still no Wright banging on his door, offering friendship or condemning him as a monster. He doesn't have any faith that will last. His sleep suffers; a seasonal affliction but worse this year than almost ever before. There are Christmas lights strung up everywhere, carols on every radio station. There's an elevator in every building it seems. No word from Wright.

Miles feels stupid. He's _foolish_. He asked for this, outright demanded it even. He knows it's better this way. His mentor is back in town, and von Karma would never stand for something so idiotic as a relationship with a defense attorney, much less the one who defeated him twice already. And besides, he doesn't want to _feel like this_ , he knows it would only be worse with Phoenix around. He doesn't need any more examples of what he can't be. He wants to forget ever meeting him again. (He can't stop _thinking_ about him.)

Months pass, in what feels like a slow but steady descent into madness.

The letter is a reckoning fifteen years late. Miles wasn't called to the stand for DL-6; his statement had been taken in a separate interview, with von Karma standing at his shoulder for moral support. It hadn't meant much then – _nothing_ had; not then, and not for a long time after – but now, he wishes he'd been there for the trial. He shouldn't. If he'd been there, he's sure he would've confessed what really happened. What he thought he remembered.

(What he'd done, trying to _help_.)

The statute of limitations ends this week. He could just ignore Hammond's letter, and soon enough it couldn't do him any legal damage. His reputation might suffer, if the attorney went public with any kind of accusation – he might not, he might not have any idea – but Miles has suffered bad press before, with little real impact. He could ignore this. For the sake of his career, his life as it currently stands, he _should_.

There's no way in hell he won't be there.

It's a stupid decision. Hammond has no reason to reach out, not so close to the anniversary, not after so long. They'd never even met back then. This meeting has to be an attempt at blackmail, or an accusation, or – it won't be anything _good_.

But at least it will be honest.

Everything has been _wrong_ since meeting Wright again. One of the worst ways is that the other lawyer's dedication to complete truth has shed light on how much of Miles' own life is built on falsehoods. From the smallest details (a chess set he doesn't know how to use, beyond arranging imagined revenge on a familiar spiky head) to his most important relationships (constantly putting down Gumshoe, playing a game of pretend with Franziska that rivalry is all they have), to even the very foundation on which it was all built. The lie that he is still innocent. The hypocrisy of him putting murderers behind bars.

He's not been happy for years. But Phoenix Wright somehow brought that into such sharp relief that Miles can't ignore it anymore; these months since rejecting his friendship haven't helped in the slightest. Something needs to _change_. It doesn't have to be good.

Something real will be enough.

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 **wordcount:** 600


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